"May your lance strike true, Ser Ellion."

Passion returned to Mychel just as Ellion Tyrell trotted off, leaving behind a mildly charmed young lord. The knight of the Reach seemed like a pleasant fellow, unsurprisingly chivalrous on the surface. His good disposition reminded him faintly of Lucas Royce, although Lucas had never had that bold and confident glint in his eyes, the spark of someone whose greatest passion was glorious combat. Noteworthy, with much potential so long as he was not put in the position of ruling in peacetime.

The heir to the Vale offered his arm to his falcon, and smiled as he stroked her feathers. There was blood on Passion's talons; a small reminder that, while she was his loyal companion, she would never be just a pet.

Mychel resumed his walk, watching the jousting between the Tyrell knight and a Targaryen prince with some interest. The event did not end in any sort of tragedy, fortunately, and he raised his arm to salute the victorious Ellion. Passion added a screech of her own in the ensuing celebration.

[hr]

Ser Harrold Hardying performed well in his first tilts, but before long it became clear that his best days were far behind. His frustration could be felt in the air around him as he rejoined his liege, the frown on his handsome face stiff and the grip on his sword's pommel tight. The last joust had left a painfully visible dent on his once magnificent armor, and deprived him of his best chance to impress the royal family.

Because of all that, he reacted to the approach of one Ser Aerion Goldfyre with uncharacteristic rudeness, although not before Lord Robin could admit that the war against the mountain clans continued, and that his son had at times suggested leaving the bulk of the fight in the hands of sellswords under his supervision, rather than Ser Harrold and the Winged Knights. The idea had offended Ser Harrold at the time, of course, but it stubbornly lingered in Lord Robin's mind, as his son's ideas often did. Although he could not make an outright offer, the opportunity was made quite clear by the time Ser Harrold brought their conversation to a brusque end and all but dragged the Lord Paramount away from the sellsword knight.

[hr]

The Black Falcon reached the royal stands just as the melee moved past its climax, leaving behind dozens upon dozens of bruised and breathless men and women from all corners of the Seven Kingdoms lying in the dust. Those who still stood and fight were fee and visibly tired in their motions, although that did not make some of them any less fascinating to behold. The king himself performed impressively, as did others of the royal family. Ser Harrold's Winged Knights, by comparison, had fared somewhat worse. For all of his kinsman's boasting about the skill of his order, they were still little more than a poor imitation of more prestigious orders, and an even poorer representation of the Vale's chivalry.

What truly caught the young Arryn's attention, were the people on the stands. He could see his father and Ser Harrold from afar, exchanging pleasantries with lesser lords and knights, yet around them awaited a vast variety of people who piqued Mychel's interest. There were the Targaryen royals, of course, with their fair looks and red and black attires, as well as Tyrells and Lannisters aplenty. Among them was Ser Ellion, speaking to an older lady. He gave the Tyrell knight a small, polite nod, and walked onwards through the noble crowd.

His eyes could not help but linger on one particular man, a knight with the purple eyes of a Targaryen and a golden sigil that featured the royal family's three-headed dragon. He was surrounded by various other people, including one whose name was whispered in the crowds almost as often as that of the Targaryen princes: Black Visenya. The knight had the markings of high nobility, but the details spoke of an entirely different life, that of a sellsword from lands far away, one who understood the customs of the lords and knights on the stands and the lists, but did not share their devotion to those customs.

If the man and his companions had been allowed to be on the stands, then they must have earned the favor of the royal family.

He did not approach them at first. Instead, his eyes turned to Lord Willas Tyrell and Lord Tyrion Lannister, flickering for an instant towards Ser Ellion and the fair Targaryens. All around him people held mostly superfluous conversations, but on occasion even the most restrained lords and ladies stumbled, and the affairs of the realm, both known and secret, reached Mychel's attentive ears. There were many constants: great bands of rebels now existed on almost every kingdom of Westeros. From the Vulture King to his homeland's own mountain clans, violent uprisings reigned supreme as they slowly but surely chipped away at the peace that Jon and Daenerys Targaryen had spent their lives building. There was no glory in those sorts of wars, Mychel knew. Knights took little pride in riding down poorly armed bandits, and lords did not have great songs written in honor of their slaughter of the angry rabble.

Therein lied an opportunity for new approaches, Mychel often thought. If there was no glory in such wars, it was all the more reason to leave the shining armors behind and let minds and tongues solve the problems. He had succeeded in doing as much with some of the mountain clans, much to his father and Ser Harrold's chagrin. Who could say that the same did not apply to the other threats to the peace in the realm?

But it was not just quelling rebellions what he aspired to. History was filled with wars and rebellions, yet also with periods of peace, during which rulers got to experiment with the winds of history. They enacted reforms, schemed against their rivals, and built bonds that brought with them prosperity and power. And Mychel Arryn hungered for that. He yearned to hold that power and its many responsibilities, craved the opportunity to change the world around him and shape the course of history. It was a visceral sensation, one that imbued his desire to do good, to help the people of the land, with a voracious enthusiasm.

That only the Targaryens stood above his house and his future endeavors played its own part in his ambitions, albeit not one that he thought too often of, or that he spoke of aloud. Although his father had sworn fealty to the Iron Throne and to King Jon and Queen Daenerys, there was not a single lord in the Vale who had forgotten the part that House Arryn had played in Robert Baratheon's rebellion. His father's oldest bannermen spoke often of the great Jon Arryn, and Mychel had been an avid listener of their tales. The Arryns had helped overthrow the Targaryens once, and they had done so for the greater good, in opposition to the cruelty of a mad king and in support of two good friends of the Vale and its Lord Paramount. Jon and Daenerys Targaryen had ruled well so far, but a small part of Mychel could not help but feel that something about a new Targaryen dynasty on the Iron Throne was wrong.

On the other hand, Mychel was at a loss when it came to Westeros' inhuman foes. The dark, magical monstrosities the lords and ladies spoke of had always sounded unreal to him, so far away from the Runestone and the Eyrie. Whispers in the night, nightmares that a few were taking too seriously for their own good. Yet these were not peasants or priests from the farther corners of the land, but the great men and women of the Seven Kingdoms. Such being the case, it was difficult not to feel a tinge of that particular kind of fear, the one only children used to feel in times past, when magic had faded along with all terrible creatures.

Passion screeched on his arm and poked his cheek with her beak, but Mychel paid her no heed. Instead, he turned again to the strange knight. He was speaking to his companions in a rather convincing imitation of smalltalk, the true nature of their conversation revealed to him by the oft overlooked details of every person's behavior. Sometimes people, Mychel found, were like a painting with no self-awareness, unknowingly revealing all, even the purposefully concealed, in their smallest aspects.

The smallest aspects of his appearance and demeanor also revealed a lot about Tyrion Lannister as he stood nearby on the stands. The man once called "the Imp" drank and japed, as he was known to do, but even when his laughter was sincere, his cunning mind showed. Mychel's father to this day despised the Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, but Mychel himself had always been intrigued by his almost legendary tale. Despised by his own father, he was a dwarf, a kinslayer and a formidable politician. The body of Tyrion Lannister was hardly imposing, now that Mychel got to look at him, yet that only added to his admiration for the man who had survived the War of the Ten Crowns and become one of the most powerful and brilliant men in the Seven Kingdoms.

As a child, the Black Falcon had often thought about meeting him, learning from him, and maybe one day becoming a man like him.

That was all the reason Mychel needed to approach the Hand of the King, Passion now obediently quiet and still on his shoulder. On his path towards the man, he accepted a cup of wine. From the Arbor, he suspected, although he was not very experienced on the topic.

He bowed perhaps a bit too reverently when he came close to the man, and maybe his smile was too wide. Yet he cared little about that, or about the looks he received from his father and Ser Harrold from afar.

"Lord Tyrion, it is an honor." Said Mychel. "I am Mychel Arryn."

He allowed himself a small, mischievous grin in place of his previous smile, as he spoke again. "I believe you are acquainted with my father, Lord Robin Arryn. He certainly remembers your lordship."

[@MrDidact]